


Breaking Bread

by sheepchase



Category: Leverage
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-21 20:34:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16583687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepchase/pseuds/sheepchase





	Breaking Bread

Hardison hadn't accounted for the fact that owning a restaurant meant running a restaurant. Now, they had a half trained staff, and a half formed menu, and beers that were only occasionally drinkable. It was no wonder the staff had been damn near at each other's throats during the lunch rush. They needed to fix this before dinner.

“We're closing.” Eliot barked.

“What? Like, forever man? What are you talking about.” Hardison trailed behind Eliot as he stalked to the door to flip the sign to closed.

“No not forever. A couple hours” Eliot slid up close to Hardison. “We gotta fine tune some shit. This team is going to come apart if we don't do somethin' about morale. We've got two hours.” Eliot squeezed Hardison's elbow to emphasize his point.

The staff whispered among themselves and Hardison hovered. When the last of the lunch customers walked out the door, Eliot called the entire staff back into the kitchen.

“Listen up everyone. New Friday tradition, Family meal. The man who taught me to cook always made sure his staff was well fed before we went into the evening shift. Mary you're on salad. Tim slice some of that turkey we made yesterday.”

Hardison was still questioning this move. “Do we have time to sit down and have a meal? I know how you cook. We can't serve them a three course meal. You can't do that in two hours.” Eliot kept working, Hardison was just talking to hear his own voice. 

In twenty minutes, Eliot and the staff had pushed together a couple of tables and chairs, and everyone was seated. Family meal was only turkey sandwiches, a green salad, and some chips just out of the fryer. It wasn't much, but it would do. 

The waitresses who had formed a pact against the the third waitress shared meaningful glances. The bus boy who was berated for being too slow, and then again for being clumsy, kept his eyes on the salad bowl in front of him. The prep cook Eliot had personally chewed out that morning for looking at his phone sat rigid in his chair. Hardison looked like he was going to do a dance to break the tension.

Eliot picked up the big salad bowl and put some on his plate to signal that they should start  
“Mary, you said your mom taught you how to make this sesame dressing? She show you anything else?” 

After 30 minutes, Eliot had to clap his hands to mover every one along to clean up. Table clearing, washing and drying, prep for the next shift all started to roll.

Hardison took the opposite end of the table where they had just been sitting and said, “For a second there, I thought you were going to make us all say grace.”

“Grace is what happens at the end of the meal. No reason to say it.”


End file.
